


5 First And One Last Time

by buttheyrebrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Times, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6006742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Firsts and lasts in the life of Sam and Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 First And One Last Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> Written for the Wincest Love Week on Tumblr for the amazing Dollylux. I was fucking terrified to write for one of my favorite authors. But it was a great experience. Thank you for your kindness <3

The first time Dean notices the soft curve of Sam’s ass the boy is thirteen. Sam is growing constantly this year ever since the first summer breeze has kissed the tiny mole next to his nose. Dean envies the wind and the sun for something he can’t even name so he just makes sure to shelter Sam with his body from them. There is a new awareness to the way he looks at his little brother and he’s not sure what it means. Sam has always been his focal point, always on the forefront of his mind, the axis of a world that spins too fast. But never before have his eyes lingered on the expanse of Sam’s back, has he marveled at the way his spine leads like a pilgrim route to soft and vulnerable places. Dean catches himself dreaming of pink lips and cinnamon colored skin. He loses himself in the spiel of light in an unruly mop of hair, imagines his hands buried in the soft strands and hates himself for the ache in his heart and the heat in his groin. Soft lashes kiss the tender skin underneath hazel eyes as worlds collapse and stars are born from dust.

_Dean has signed his soul to hell long before the taste of sulfur has graced his lips for the first time._

The first time Sam says Dean’s name like a prayer he’s on his knees. There is sin in his eyes and worship on his lips. He licks Ave Marias into the hot flesh of his own blood and knows, someday he will burn for it. Sam’s not worried about hell. Not when his salvation comes in the way Dean’s hand tugs on the strands of his hair. Heaven is found in the way his brother’s tongue trips over his name like those three syllables are the nails that tack him to the cross. Sam drinks his seed like it’s the blood of Christ and he feasts on Dean’s moans like it’s the Last Supper. The tremble of muscles under his hands like the great shaking of Sinai before God spoke his truth to Moses. Sam’s only truth lies within the green of Dean’s eyes. It beats frantically underneath his palm when they kiss. It lulls him to sleep at night when his head rests on the warm chest of his miracle.

_With Dean, Sam has found his own kind of innocence as he sins for the first time._

The first time Dean writes his love in yellow-blue ink on the insides of Sam's thighs his little brother is no older than fifteen. It’s a cold night in January and Sam’s skin is like silk underneath his lips. Soft and pale. Stretched thin over protruding bones. He holds onto them like a lifeline, knuckles white and skin marked with finger shaped bruises. Eyes marvel at the body laid out before him. Like a canvas that begs to be brought to life with livid colors. Dean bites vows against the sharp knots that run down an elegant spine, bowed in pleasure like the stem of a flower that reaches towards the sun. He will write their memoirs on Sam’s ribs one day. It won’t be a love story. Them, it’s too big for that. Instead, it will be a promise. Devotion kissed on begging lips, a pledge whispered into the no-man’s land between them.

_Bespoken long before they ever plight their troth in a church for the first time._

The first time Sam imagines a future outside the life he dreams of a white-picket fence and a dog. He conjures a two story house with a garden and a porch. There is a king size bed with sheets no one has ever slept in before and the walls are stacked with bookshelves. The only red he sees these days comes from the tomatoes in his kitchen garden. But that’s not all he dreams about. When Sam imagines his future, any future really, he sees Dean. Under the hood of a car with grease on his shirt. And when he looks at Sam he gives him a smile as dirty as his sweaty skin. There is Dean drinking coffee in the morning or Dean's freckles kissed to life by the first morning sun. The pillow next to his smells like sandalwood and whiskey and home. There are two toothbrushes, two pairs of boots by the door, two people sharing the house of his dream. Sharing a life. Without monsters and blood and lost love. When Sam allows himself to dream of tomorrow his vision is filled with freckles and green eyes and lazy morning sex. It's DeanDeanDean.

_After he has had all of these things except the most important part Sam thinks he had gotten it right the first time._

The first time Dean drinks himself into a stupor he passes out in the car with spit and tears and blood on his face.  He’s thankful for the temporary oblivion. The bodily pain will be nothing in the face of the ragged pieces of his soul. They cut his insides open wide and he’s choking on his heartbreak. That’s what you get when you love a hurricane. It sweeps you right off your feet and you feel like you’re flying because you tamed the beast. But when it wanders on and leaves destruction in its wake you find that you’re the slayed dragon instead. You fall and you crash. Bones shatter. Limbs askew. You end up a fucking mess. He had it coming because that’s what you get. And the worst thing is not even the empty seat next to him or the echo of laughter that haunts his every waking second. It’s that Sam loves him. He said so himself. _I love you. But I have to go_. And Dean answered with his own four letter word. _Don’t_. When he closes his eyes all he sees are the shrinking lights of the bus as it drives away.

_Dean learned that his love is not enough to keep someone close long before he held his other half on the muddy ground of Cold Oak, ripped away from him for good for the first time._

The last time they leave each other Sam goes first. It’s kind of ironic, really. A heart attack kills him in his sleep at the prime age of sixty-eight. It’s about thirty years more than they ever thought he would get. Still, the irony is not lost on Dean who has eaten more saturated fat in a year than Sam has his whole life. He swears to himself that Sam will never hear the end of that one. After all, it’s his big brother duty to tease his little brother. Dean smiles at the thought and pulls the trigger.

He opens his eyes behind the wheel of his baby and turns to look at his shotgun.   
“Don’t you say a fucking word, jerk.”   
The answering _Bitch_ gets lost between eager lips, welcoming him home for the last time.


End file.
